


(If) You Said Goodbye To Me Tonight

by TheShippingMaster



Series: TENET is not just a faceless organisation [2]
Category: Tenet (2020)
Genre: F/M, Not Actually Unrequited Love, One Night Stands, Post-Canon, drinking buddies
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-27
Updated: 2020-10-27
Packaged: 2021-03-08 17:04:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,641
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27100120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheShippingMaster/pseuds/TheShippingMaster
Summary: Ives has one night left to be a Tenet agent before he inverts and scatters pieces of the Algorithm throughout time. How does he want to spend it? Why, with his drinking buddy, Wheeler, of course. And maybe, just maybe, he gets to say goodbye to the one person who might miss him when hes gone.
Relationships: Ives & Wheeler (Tenet), Ives/Wheeler (Tenet)
Series: TENET is not just a faceless organisation [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1971535
Comments: 6
Kudos: 18





	(If) You Said Goodbye To Me Tonight

**Author's Note:**

> the vibes for this fic are: You Matter To Me from Waitress the Musical, Peer Pressure by James Bay and Julia Michaels, and Take Care Of Yourself by Maisie Peters
> 
> Oh, and of course, The Longest Time by Billy Joel.

I forgot how nice romance is; I haven't been there for the longest time

The sun had already set by the time Ives had caught up with the troops of the Stalsk-12 raid. He was the sole passenger on the whole ride back to the freight ship, still weary and sore after the long day. Watching Neil jump off, the usually cheery bastard rendered silent, with no quip or remark, just a plain and simple goodbye was emptying. It just made the algorithm weigh him further as he slung the bag across his shoulders. Unconsciously, he made to hide the pack behind him at the sight of the troops but paused. Bottles of vodka lay empty between tables and chairs, the Tenet agents already losing their minds to forget this mission.

Both Red and Blue teams suffered heavy losses that couldn’t be mourned, so alcohol was an agent’s favourite friend. The different stages of drunkeness allowed them to access those emotions without displaying a conscious effort of feeling the loss; while it was not encouraged by the Higher Ups, it was neither condemned. They wouldn’t (and couldn’t) be unfeeling soldiers all the time.

Ives walked through the group, knuckles turning white as he gripped the bag straps. He did his best to appear collected, keeping his gaze straight into the distance. Only in his periphery did he observe his colleagues; Amos nursed a bottle of rum, off to the corner in a sole plastic chair, the wall his crutch, while Ibiza had entered a drinking competition with Taylor. He tried to imprint their faces into his memory.

Once he was locked away in his bunk, Ives dropped the bag to the floor and rubbed his hands over his face. Oh god, this was a mess. Time had a way to fucking them all over, but in this instance Ives wished he could physically strangle it. The Boss knew what he was doing when he sent them all on this mission. The _motherfucker_.

To double check, he combed through the algorithm. All the pieces from his third were still with him, all conjoined and in place. Touching it felt radioactive; Ives could feel his impending doom the longer he held this horribly magnificent thing.

He’d have to leave tonight, if not tomorrow morning. The Boss probably anticipated that (that bastard), and would probably have a ‘copter waiting for him on the helipad, just like how they were waiting for them after the explosion. He tried to fight the feeling of disappointment that stirred deep within him. It was too short; he’d only lived for thirty years, and gave up everything for the cause, for Tenet. This was his life’s work. To leave now was cruel.

For some odd reason, his brain recalled an exchange between him and the Boss several years earlier. Neil had gone on a mission and Ives took on the responsibility of being the Boss’s intermediator. They had been in his office, going over details for an upcoming mission when the Boss started the conversation.

“What do you think about safe houses?”

He remembered looking up from the paper with confusion.

“Safe houses?” he repeated, sitting up.

At his desk, the Boss relaxed into his leather seat and stared at him, hands interlocked under his chin. The question itself wasn’t too strange, but he was still fairly knew at being the Boss, so Ives didn’t look into it too much.

“Too much work. They leave a paper trail of money and legal ownership. It would be too easy to trace.” He should have known that. Ives squinted at the Boss, scanning why the older man had that deep, faraway expression.

He nodded slowly before pickup his pen. “Thank you, Ives.”

They had continued their work for another half an hour before he asked, “What if the safe house was hand built? Nobody around, totally secure.”

Ives tried hard not to make a face, taking a breath. It was borderline inappropriate, as it gave Ives a spark of what the Boss was thinking about. At the time, he thought the implication was that the Boss would need a safe place, with something happening in his future requiring one. But as he recalled the way those eyes seemed curious despite their nonchalant façade, Ives realised differently. He was asking if Ives really would end himself or hide away; to know what happened to him after this day.

It meant he would truly never see his old teammates ever again.

A long sigh escaped him as he sat down. Being tired was taking its toll on him, but after tonight he could potentially rest forever. The thought sent a chill down his spine.

Ives had never been a selfish agent; he did as he was told without question. He was a soldier, always had been on the inside. So when the opportunity came to not only put his skills to use, but to fulfil a life-long desire of servitude to a worthy cause, it was as if he had been staring at an unfinished puzzle his whole life and had found the final piece. But now, this faceless entity reached for his puzzle and picked it apart, leaving him a mess. Giving your life for the mission was the highest honour a Tenet agent could receive; to die like this felt like cheating.

Screw it. Ives wanted something for himself for this last night. He earned the right to be selfish, to take command of his own damn life for once.

What did he want to do for right now?

* * *

The job was never over for Wheeler. She went over administrative issues in her private bunk, sifting through paperwork that would be burned anyway once they reached Boss’s eyes. This mission had been like many she’d experienced, where the stakes and casualties were unbelievably high. At least one perk of being in Tenet was that they were all officially dead anyway. They wouldn’t have to ever list official death dates or contact next of kin; the thought of handling blubbering family members made her scrunch her nose in grimace.

There was a temptation to join her unit on the deck, to drink away her mind as she was reminded of their losses with the significantly smaller crowd. Instead, some part of her was still waiting, holding out hope that Ives had succeeded at his mission. Neil had disappeared and still wasn’t back; she had to bite her lips to ward off the want to drink at the thought of Ives being gone too. Even though she too was a commander, she wasn’t told what his true mission was before they inverted.

He must be fine, because he was Ives.

Ives was always fine.

Her on the other hand? Oh, she always managed to gain some kind of scar on her, luckily none from an inverted object. This particular mission gifted her a graze of a bullet on her thigh. How it had been a bullet moving in the same temporal direction as her had been pure good fortune. She was afraid of running out of that good faith, that one day it would drain out and she would be in the field defenceless. It was thought she didn’t like to entertain; speculation in this line of work was not one for her station anyways.

A knock on the door was a welcomed distraction. She sat up and called for them to enter. Relief flooded her lungs. Despite herself, she was maybe just a _little_ bit glad it was only him, with two plastic cups and a bottle of vodka in hand.

“Hey,” Ives said, pulling up a stool and setting up.

She smiled as he poured. “Hey,” she replied. They clinked their cups together in silent toast and drank. It had been an established ritual between them to toast to those who passed during their missions before they drank for themselves. It had been something the two of them did for as long as she could remember knowing him.

“How are things on your end?” she asked, taking a smaller sip now.

The way he raised his eyebrows was a little concerning, but his blue eyes met hers with assurance. “Peachy. You?”

She parroted him and they fell into rhythm. As it was customary for these two commanders, Wheeler and Ives talked about nothing and anything. This weird balance of not giving away anything and wanting to share more never got easier as time progressed. What one person remembered as a fond memory was a future to come for the other, and common ground was getting harder and harder to remember the more their lives were inverted and moving forward again.

What had she already told him? Did he know that he told her this already, or is this the first time for him? Was this the right thing to tell him or was it too soon?

There were things in her past life that Wheeler wanted to express, things she wished she could confide in someone (specifically that someone being Ives). He was the closest thing she had to a reliable friend. If she still were around her family, her mother might’ve pestered her about him, to invite him over all the time. Wheeler might’ve said how ridiculous she was being. Deep down she knew her mother might’ve been right. She wasn’t around her family anymore.

As she observed his weary face, leaned forward with his legs spread between the chair’s posts, Wheeler let herself wonder what it would be like to let somebody in this life in. Ives was a stickler for the rules of inter-agent contact, never letting up or slipping slightly about his past or what would come. Perfect, rugged, golden boy for the higher ups. No wonder he became a commander is a much shorter time than she did (apart from the good ole patriarchy fucking her over, like that would be _finished_ in the future). Neil had the Boss; the Boss had Neil. Non-combative agents and scientists could maintain their families. Wheeler just wanted one person, _just one_ , to confide in, to talk to. _How would he act if she tried?_

“Do you remember Paris?” she asked, breaking a comfortable silence.

Ives’ turned his attention away from the wall, cup balanced between his teeth like a child. He didn’t say anything but set the cup down on their shared table. She took that as a sign to continue.

“When you found me outside the hotel- I dunno- I was glad. Then, you explained that you _knew_ about them and it just felt- _I_ just felt… relieved.” Whether or not the heat creeping up her neck was from the alcohol or this topic was a little of a mystery to her. She didn’t expect him to reply, because that was not what Ives did.

The thing about Ives was that he was usually serious, but that didn’t stop him from being a little jokey now and again. He was funny in a deadpan sort of way. And what she remembered fondly about Paris was how he opened up about them, the Boss and Neil, with a ready grin to let her in on what he’d seen and known. The pain he felt at having to always keep them at arm’s length from everyone else. They were in a club of their own, with a secret that probably wouldn’t be known to Time itself. Even remembering the floaty feeling in her chest as they’d drank in that bar, their colleagues wasting themselves in reward as they sang karaoke, his crinkled eyes on her and only her- Wheeler disguised her shiver with a back roll. It surprised her when he nodded.

“I felt the same,” he said quietly. He seemed very focused on staring into the contents of his cup.

He had this look on his face that she couldn’t quite place (partly because of the beard obscuring his expressions), where he seemed faraway and attentive at the same time. She’d seen this look a few times before; the first had been a while ago, back when she’d caught up to him in a hall before a had mission started. It was strange to consider it now, but the memory had resurfaced. At the time she thought he was just being distant, purposefully cold. She knew better now. If she had to find an equivalent, Wheeler thought that this was maybe his version of a deer-in-headlights.

What had happened for him to have that expression?

In a long sigh, Wheeler let the thought go. It was no use dwindling on personal past events; the bigger picture mattered and was far more important. The bigger picture; saving the world. Her mind tugged her back to the mission.

“I have to ask,” she started, voice low, “about Neil. He left our team about half way through the mission.”

Ives’ stare turned hard, and Wheeler could guess what had happened. He didn’t say anything and she didn’t pry.

How it happened never mattered, not in this kind of job, and where or when would also be forever unknown. She was well aware of Priya’s mantra; _ignorance is our ammunition_. Still, when she closed her eyes she was still on that battlefield, calling for him to come back. His fading figure overwhelmed by the shuddering bullet shots and limited vision. She had to force herself to not chase after him, to instead grab Amos and yank him back as rubble inverted back into a pillar. The mission was their utmost priority- the worst thing was that she understood why he left. Seeing their not-quite-Boss be so clueless as to what was going on was something she had to get over quickly, but, _oh_ , she held sympathies for Neil. In all the times after she’d caught them together way back in Paris, she wondered how long it would last. She’d joked once that his love for the Boss would be the death of him. How she wished she had been wrong.

“I’ll miss being around him,” she said softly, refilling her cup. Ives’ grunt signalled his agreement, and he downed his drink. They would meet Neil again, that much she was sure of, but he wouldn’t be the Neil they’d risked their lives with on many an occasion. He’d probably be all shiny and new.

Wheeler reached out, like she had tens of times before, and held onto Ives’ hand. Comfort was small and hard to find in this line of work; Wheeler became accustomed to showing only brief moments of relief. His thumb held her fingers as he pressed her touch against his palm. Wheeler allowed a small smile to appear for only a second, biting her cheek to keep it down.

The vodka bottle emptied, the last remnants shared between them. The heaviness was settling in; it was late. The not-quite-party had started to wind down. The loud chatter couldn’t be heard down here anymore, and over the course of Ives and hers little drinking party, they’d heard constant footsteps echoing the metal chamber. Taylor had tried to sing but was drowned out by other agents shushing him. Ibiza had started bragging before the disgusting sound of her stomach emptying itself ensued. More and more agents used the wall as a tool to advance forward to their rooms. Wheeler herself was starting to feel the weight of the day, the call of the hard mattress too tempting. She would’ve suggested they go off to bed if not for Ives stopping her.

After the trickle of agents quietened down beyond the doors, Wheeler made to pull her arm back. Their little moments never lasted long, and this hand-holding had gone on for longer than usual (not that she was complaining, only stating). Her fingers started to slip out of his, turning to her bed. Instead of the usual release, Wheeler was surprised that he held on.

Startled, Wheeler could only stare wide-eyed, confused as to why he held fast. Ives’ thumb gently caressed her knuckles, his touch soft and sweet. They were drunk, but not this drunk.

“Ives-“ she breathed, gaping at him.

The way he seemed so concentrated on her hand seemed like he was contemplating something. He wouldn’t look at her, his knit brow telling her absolutely nothing. Without really thinking, Wheeler held her breath. His fingers stop their dance.

Slowly, as if he was stilling mulling the choice over as he was making it, Ives brought his lips down. A soft plant on where her knuckles met her backhand. He’d shut his eyes tight; she couldn’t take her view away. Stickler-for-the-rules Ives, displaying affection? Something had to be wrong.

“What’s going on?” she asked, imploring him to explain, grabbing his hands. “Ives?” Their faces were close, her having knelt down to peer up at him. She wanted to reach out, because he was scaring her. He had this rueful, spiteful expression, the kind a hormonal teenager made before they did something stupid. “Ives, please.” She couldn’t ask him to explain; he wouldn’t. That’s just who he was. And she knew better than to ask too, but staring at him hopelessly in private quarters felt futile. He didn’t need to explain; _just tell me_ , the words threatened to spill out.

Yet, just as softly and kindly, Ives ran a finger across her hairline. He caught loose strands of her curly hair, tucking them behind her ear. She tried to ignore the goosebumps that exploded along her neck, frowning at him. Swallowing was getting difficult without being noticeable that this was affecting her, especially with how his gaze seemed to roam around her face. _What was he doing_?

She tried again, breathing his name, "Ives."

His fingers brushed against her ears. For a brief second, she saw his tongue flick over his lower lip. It took another second to realise they were staring at each other’s’ mouths.

“Can I?” he whispered back. Those wandering sad eyes finally met hers again. She found the same desire within herself reflected back.

She couldn’t speak, her ears deafened by her blood pumping. He was waiting patiently, his thumb gently rubbing her fingers. The way he seemed so sure yet uncertain scared her in a different way. Now she was taking in his features; those eyes that had only started to wrinkle, the beard that made him seem older than he probably was, how his lips always seemed to rest at a lopsided angle.

It took her a moment before she made her decision. She nodded once.

Ives moved closer, kneeling down too. His hands moved from her hairline to the back of her head, combing through her thick hair, ending up with one hand coming up around and cupping her jaw. Wheeler let herself relax as much as she could- it was so difficult because him touching her like this made her go tense in all sorts of conflicting reasons. Being still felt odd, so she reached out and held his shoulders.

He turned his head and kissed her wrist, taking it in his hand to leave a trail around her knuckles, her palm, her forearm. She could only watch frozen, unbelieving this was actually happening. The light and playful flutters along her side, the buzz of his beard tickling her skin, his steady and reliable heartbeat against her erratic pounding as he continued. Wheeler made to return the gifts, wanting to give back to him the kindness and sweetness. Her fingers were soft as they caressed his arms, foreheads touching. She made the first move in breaking into the head space, his cheek scratchy against her lips.

From there it was a blur of shirts that wouldn’t unbutton, combat shoes that enticed snorts and took unlacing, and sweet tickles up and down the other. He had picked her up at some point and they fell into bed. She gripped his waist, he tugged her hair. There was this flurry feeling in her stomach that went into hyperdrive when his cold finger tips explored her skin.

No matter how far they went, no matter how much they yearned for it, they didn’t kiss. Not in the proper way. Not in the way that made it truly intimate. She would plant them on his jaw line, his clavicle, those broad shoulders; he would return back with her navel, the scars that littered her torso, her neck. Everywhere (but not really _everywhere_ ). Hickies were left in crooks and nannies of the other, with perhaps a shy one on her jaw, on his collarbone. It had been unspoken, like a barrier that once breached would make this real and not some drunken fever dream.

He had been careful with her injured thigh, ensuring that the bandages didn't slip off or were uneven. Every time he placed his hand there, Wheeler had expected some pain to seep into their activities. However, he was mindful in the pressure applied, so that each time his hand slid down to her thighs, they tickled more than anything. If only she could have done the same for him- he'd only several purple bruises and a spot on his forehead that indicated he'd been shot there, saved by their protective gear. When she was on top, she’d brushed his hair away, a grim smile shared between the both of them.

In the in-between moments of rest, where they managed to squeeze into the narrow bed side by side, the idle chatter that resumed was more comical than usual. Whatever formalities kept them bound, broke. In a momentary lapse of either judgement, they talked about themselves. In the back of her mind, alarm bells were ringing in Wheeler, but as she was caught up in this euphoria she ignored them. They told each other how old they were at this moment in time, because birth years meant nothing in Tenet.

“Eight years older?” Ives exclaimed, a grin lighting up his eyes.

She covered her face and tried to turn away, but her rolled her back over. “I knew you were younger than I thought you looked,” Wheeler groaned. He laughed a genuine laugh, the sound warming her skin.

And then they were at it again, perhaps a bit more confident than the first time but still just as careful. She cared for the bruise on his eyebrow line, he dug his nails into her skin. Their lips touched the other in all the soft and hardened places; except the one place where it would count.

It was _late_ , and Wheeler could feel it, by the time they actually fell asleep. She’d forgotten how incredibly nice it was to fall asleep with someone beside her, to lay beside a source of warmth and comfort in this dark square room. She could hear Ives’ heavy breathing as she drifted to sleep, succumbing to her fatigue.

* * *

When Ives awoke, the sun had peeked over the horizon. It was still early; the deep quiet of the ship made that a certainty. Carefully removing himself from the mattress, Ives gathered his scattered clothes, putting on his boxers and trousers to cover up from the cold. Wheeler was sound asleep, already filling in the space he’d left.

He’d tried not to glance at her, but couldn’t help the small grin that bloomed at the sight of her messy hair and extravagant sleeping pose. _He shouldn’t_. To touch her now would mean her waking up, which would not help his situation at all. He’d already fallen into temptation last night; to push his luck now would be to jeopardize everything. Everything that was sensible in him said no.

But then the algorithm flashed into his mind and his heart sank. Screw sensibility. He earned this extra little moment of selfishness; it was a carry on from last night. Ives was sure not to disturb her as he planted a light kiss on her forehead. Wheeler stirred, so Ives stood back and held his breath. A chortle wanted to bubble through as she rolled around, snuggled the rock-hard pillow, and let out a sigh. Still asleep.

With a parting, amusing glance, Ives left her bunk. Given that his was right across, it was fairly easy to not to wake any troops, who were no doubt all sleeping like the dead. He took his shower and packed what little of his things he had. He sat at the edge of his bed frame when he was done, staring at the duffle bag.

It had been no more than an hour since he’d awoken. Gathering the will to leave his room was harder than he’d anticipated. Once he stepped outside, he was no longer a Tenet agent. He could never come back, never see ... any of his comrades again. Accepting it had been easy, but the execution was difficult. He rubbed his hands together.

 _After today you can rest_. He replayed the thought over and over. What kind of rest? Death, like he’d promised the not-yet-Boss? Or a quiet retirement outside of civilisation, surrounded by wilderness and loneliness?

He shot up at the approaching whir of a ‘copter. The future told him it was time. He grabbed the bag, slung it over his shoulder, and sauntered out of his empty bunk. Only the ship’s captain and crew greeted him, guiding him to the helipad. The helicopter doors slid open and Ives stepped up, mindful of the blades.

A hesitation. Ives paused before the doors, feeling a weight burning through his back. He glanced over his shoulder and caught a lone person at the mouth of the of lower decks. Ives turned, facing her properly, taking in her understanding yet hard face. She was fully dressed, her hair still wild like she may have just woken up. They stared at each other, unmoving. Then slowly, Wheeler raised her arm up.

If this were a movie and they were other people, he would’ve dropped his things and they would be running. They would have met half way. He would have grabbed her, twirled her in the air. They would have kissed passionately, all the feelings they had wanted to share, and finally they would have expressed their everlasting love and die old together.

Only this wasn’t a movie, and he’d already seen her die on the battlefield. This was how it would always go. Ives hadn’t realised how tight his jaw had clenched and worked to let go. He faced her fully, hoping that through all their years together that she could understand what he felt, exuding what they probably shared about their line of work.

While it seemed like time had stretched, it probably only had been a minute or two. Ives raised his arm up, mirroring her, and waved. Last night he’d already tried to memorise her face, taking in those deep dimples when she smiled. Her expression was more serious than it had been, and he wished that he wouldn’t remember her like this. At least she would meet him again.

The pilot signalled that they had to go. Ives signalled back the okay, returning back to Wheeler with a last parting glance. She nodded at him; he nodded back. He tore away from her, slid into the seats and strapped himself down. In a folder addressed to him, Ives found several passports and ID’s, all with different names, nationalities, and birth dates dating back years. All with his photograph. The Boss helping him grounded this even more in Ives’ reality.

He’d thought that the desire to search back for her face would overwhelm him, so he was surprised to find that keeping his focus forward was no problem. Now, the most important mission of his life was about to take place. All worldly tethers had been broken, and Ives felt re-energised to fulfil his life’s work.

After this mission he would rest forever.

**Author's Note:**

> im a sucker for bittersweet endings and i hope this was one. after part 1 of this series (the 5+1 fic), i'd thought about how wheelives would work in canon. a thought that i entertained was that a younger wheeler and older ives had one night of intimacy to indulge in what they felt. so it would be like, the tension they sort of felt in really really drunken moments was not just their imagination. but it would have to be at a moment where they separated for good, because otherwise they could potentially bump into each other. so this means the next time wheeler met ives (a younger ives), he would have no knowledge of this. so they are stuck in this circle, similar to, but not exactly the same as, protagoneil.
> 
> also i find it funny that no matter how young "younger wheeler" is, she's always gonna be older than ives. Fiona Dourif is 38 and Aaron Taylor-Johnson is 30, so to have the oldest ives we ever see be 30, and a young-to-mid aged wheeler be in her late thirties is like ooh lala breaking stereotypes ahahahaa
> 
> ALSO THERE IS A PROTAGONEIL FIC COMING! I know im the only wheelives writer but boi i needed to get these two out of my system before i could go on to The Boyfriends, The Husbands. not sure when, but it is currently being written so ay


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